I’ve been a cougar since high school. As a senior, I dated Ricky McGuire, the cutest freshman on campus.

Not much has changed since then. There is just something about the baby-faced guys that I can’t resist. All I have to say is that it’s a good thing I never became a high school English teacher. Hello, 11 o’ clock news and an orange jumpsuit.

So, I was at work—doing the thong-clad ass, 8-inch platform stripper shoes, lapdance thing to make the rent. And then I saw him. Blond with blue eyes (my weaknesses) and he was tall—reeeeally tall. Six foot seven. Naturally, my post break-up brain is thinking—hmmm…built to scale? Hotel room. Horizontal rodeo.

As I was shamelessly flirting (it’s a tough job, but someone has to do it), this uber hot Florida State University football player asks me how old I am.

“I’m 35,” I say.

“Wow. You don’t look that old,” he says, then stammers, “Um…I mean, not like that’s old or anything.” Then he says, “Can you keep a secret?”

First of all, what kind of question is that? I’m a woman, a woman writer, a woman writer who blogs, so what do you think?

Then he pulls his driver’s license out of his wallet and hands it to me. I see, DOB: 1985.

He was BORN the year I graduated from high school! I tried to do the math on my fingers (not a math major). “That makes you…”

“Eighteen,” he says.

That’s when I heard the ratchet of the handcuffs, the gavel slamming down, felt the scarlet letter P stamped on my forehead, declaring me a pedophile and a menace to the virtue of extremely tall pubescent boys.